Bring Me To Life

A little over a year ago I learned about a call for submissions from Tease Publishing. They were looking for books to represent cards of the Tarot Deck in a series of books called "Dark Tarot".

I had a modern ghost story that I had written a few months prior and it seemed to fit the Justice Card perfectly. "Righting the wrongs of the past" The people at Tease thought so too, and now my book "Bring Me To Life" is available for sale!

Here's an excerpt from it. I hope it will catch your interest and that you'll want to read the entire story.


BRING ME TO LIFE
By
Theresa Laws
Excerpt

Darren dug deep into the pocket of his jeans. He produced the key to the desk drawer. Even though he was alone in the loft, he still looked around as if someone may be watching him. He unlocked the long desk drawer and lovingly drew out the sketch pad. He carried it carefully over to the windows to get the full light. Slowly, he lifted the cover to expose the drawings he had made of the girl he had seen.
“Draw me,” she had said and so he had. Pages and pages of her face, some more detailed than others. Her curly hair that cascaded to her shoulders, her big, sad eyes, her too thin body.
The voices that weren’t voices seemed to flit around in his head as he looked at them. Finger tips seemed to brush his arms and cheeks as he stood in the full sun of the windows.
“Stop,” Darren said, almost absent mindedly. He had become more accustomed to the voices now. They were always there, just under the surface. Like a song that you get in your head and can’t seem to shake. Today he simply spoke to them to be quiet. He let his concentration on the drawings take over and the voices receded a little.
“I know I saw you,” he said to the drawings, “in the storm that night. I looked for you, you know.” He took the sketch book to the windows that looked onto the patio and held it up. He played the scene back in his mind again. The lightening, the frightened girl, the pounding rain. Then he thought of his futile attempt to find her. Maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough. Then he had seen her in the hallway. So, that must mean that she was alright, but just for the time being. Something was terribly wrong.
“Who are you?” he asked the pictures.
“Hattie,” came a voice – in his head.


Until next time,

T.C.

The Muse Makes It, Finally!

Today, I'm so excited! The one thing that all writers yearn for has finally happened to me!

My first ever book of my own has been published. More Than A Lifetime is now available in ebook at www.allromanceebooks.com

It's a novellete, which means that it isn't very long. Just about the right length for an afternoon of escape. So, if you're feeling like you'd like to get away from it all and mix in a little romance too, then check it out. The muse and I would be so pleased if you did!

Until next time.

T.C.

The Muse and the Music

I've posted here before about how much music plays a part in my writing. Well, it has happened again.

A friend of mine does his writing exactly backwards of mine. He writes a story, then composes music to go with it. I wish I could be so talented as to actually create music too, but alas, I'm not. I simply get my inspiration from a tune.

I listen, formulate a story and then go off to write it - in complete silence.

This same friend recently wrote a beautiful piece that has no story of his own attached. I wasn't ready to go off on the tangent of a new story, but once I heard it, there was no stopping the muse, so off I went.

It is a haunting melody that has inspired a fairy tale type story in my head.

The music's title is "Stories in the Glen" The artist is Gary Denton.

Check out his blog "A Fictional Mind" at www.gdenton.blogspot.com

Now, I'm off to finish the first draft of this story. The muse and the music are with me.

Until Next Time

T.C.

The Muse Plays Tag

I've been tagged by a fellow blogger. The game requires that I list 6 unspectacular things about myself. Where do I begin?



I made my list, so here they are.



1. I'm lazy. I have to force myself to do housework. I absolutely hate it. Love the results though.



2. I play entirely too much computer solitaire. But, I love putting things in order.



3. I don't make friends easily.



4. I LOVE rainy, stormy days.



5. I am woefully lacking in computer skills.



6. I'm stubborn.





Now, my instructions are to tag 6 more people. Since I don't make friends that easily, coming up with 6 bloggers to tag was kind of difficult, and now that I've tagged them, I hope they will remain my friends!



So, here they are:



Gary: www.gdenton.blogspot.com

Victor: www.darkpiranhas.blogspot.com

Sheryl: www.wordproverb.blogspot.com

Sue: www.sueswriteon.blogspot.com

Kelli: www.ramblingsatrandom.blogspot.com

Chrissa: www.pollenandsting.blogspot.com


Consider all of yourselves tagged. Oh, and check out Dorlana's blog, www.dorlana.blogspot.com

You'll find some very interesting Supernatural Fairy Tales there!

Until next time,

T.C.

Falling In Love

Not too very long ago, I blogged here about getting an idea kind of out the blue and needing to run with it. And, I can never tell when I’ll be intrigued by something that will grow into a story. It’s a little like falling in love. Once you stop looking for it, suddenly it’s there.
I guess that’s my muse talking to me, although sometimes she’s whispering so softly I can barely hear her. When a good idea comes along I can’t wait to write it, and it usually flows out easily. When I’m not particularly loving my subject, then writing is too much like work and I don’t enjoy it nearly as much.
Have you ever been on a blind date? Usually, they don’t turn out to be much fun. Your friend builds up the looks, character, and charm of the date, but once you’re actually at the restaurant or movie, you wonder whether or not that person was much of a friend in the first place. That’s kind of what a writing project can get like when the magic goes out.
I have something that I desperately want to write, but first I have to finish another project that has gotten a little stale. I’m one of those people who needs to finish something before I start something else. If I don’t, I feel all scattered and wind up not accomplishing anything because I feel guilty about starting the new project and I’ve lost interest in the old project and…well. It isn’t pretty.
So, for now I’m stuck with an unfinished thing that I’m not fond of any more. Perhaps I really should set it aside for a little while. Maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Until next time,

T.C.

Talent and Temperament

I’m a member of several on line communities whose main topic is writing. The on and off line behavior of authors, and other people in the art community, has recently been a topic of discussion. Mainly, if an artist’s behavior has influenced whether or not we purchase their art, books, movies, music, etc.

Morals and behavior of that sort, while important, may not have so much to do with the business end of writing. When I have a relationship with an agent, or a publisher, I want them to know I’m professional enough to respect a deadline, be willing to listen to their ideas, and accept their vision of my work.

On the other side of the coin, I expect them to respect my time and know that my ideas are important to me, and to understand that I, too, have a vision for my work. This is what I would call a good business relationship.

This has nothing to do with being taken advantage of, either. Standing up for a story I believe in is something I would do. But listening to suggestions is a must.

Now, when it comes to readers who hopefully turn into fans, the people who will actually buy my books, it becomes another matter. While this is a business relationship too, it’s a bit more personal.

It has nothing to do with whether or not I walk into a book signing wearing a huge pink hat and a purple dress. That’s a “personality” or a “quirk” or a fashion nightmare. It has everything to do with how I treat people, and just like with agents and publishers that I hope to work smoothly with in the future, it should involve respect, willingness to listen, and vision.

I recently blogged here about having an “artistic snit”. These happen, even to the best artists. It’s a time when we doubt ourselves, or feel underappreciated for the hard work we put into our art. I keep these unflattering episodes to myself and may, on occasions, share them with my husband. (Which is what a spouse is there for, ranting to and receiving moral support from.) And, on very rare occasions, I might snit to my writer friends. But to continually do this, and worse, in the public eye is counter- productive to developing the kind of relationship that we all want with business partners and fans.

On line or off, our behavior tells people who we really are and, like it or not, it makes a difference.

So, I’m saying that artists certainly have a right to be “artistic” but to define bad behavior as “just being an artist” is wrong. It’s a cop out. Courtesy isn’t that difficult, and moreover it’s required in the business world. Art of any kind is a business.

I hope that any agent or publisher, or potential reader reading my blog, or my myspace page, or who may wander through an on line community I participate in, would find my behavior there to be such that they would want to have a business relationship with me.

It seems as though my muse is the only one in the position to be temperamental and moody and get by with it.

Until next time.

T.C.

My Muse and the Origin of a Story

It's funny where ideas come from. I can't control how my mind will take a seemingly simple thing and run with a story idea.
Back in April, I attended a one day writing seminar. The guest speaker was Ron Rozelle. He was an excellent teacher and I learned a lot about writing that day. But the biggest thing that happened was I got an idea for a story just from one sentence. Before the day was even over, I was jotting down notes about this idea.
Since then, some parts of the story have changed a little and I've thought about it and sort of re-directed it, but it's one of those things that can't seem to leave me alone.
I thought it would be a short tale, a short story, but so far I've written three parts to it, each about three or four thousand words long.
I've let my wonderful writer's group read them and they have given me suggestions that have ultimately made it better.
So, my muse and I would like to share Part One of my story. The working title is "Promise Me" I would appreciate any comments, too, as I'm always looking for ways to make my writing better.

PROMISE ME
By
Theresa Laws

There was too much blood. Maddie’s mind took it in, but that wasn’t what made her stop half way across the kitchen, her hand outstretched toward the screen door. It was the expression on Joe’s face. His eyes were fixed, and they focused on hers in a gaze that seemed to be contentment. If the situation hadn’t been desperate, she might have mistaken that look for love and longing. He stood there, just on the other side of the sagging screen, transfixed and unable to move. Behind him, Maddie could see the yard, with its pale, dry grass, the tumble-down fence, and beyond that, the dusty farm road bordering an empty field; the scene she saw every day from her kitchen door. Now her husband stood there, filling up the foreground of that scene, his shirt dripping with blood. Too much blood.
She covered the distance across the kitchen before she could even call out his name. “Joe! My God! ”
The door hinges screamed a dry, rusty sound as she pushed it open. Joe swayed backwards, and the expression in his eyes flickered between the dazed look and one of exhaustion and pain, but he said nothing. Maddie slipped her arm around his waist and pressed her shoulder into his arm pit. For a sickening moment, she felt his full weight and staggered under him. Then, somehow, he managed to regain his footing, and they moved forward through the door and into the kitchen.
Blood fell in slow, wet droplets, splashing onto the linoleum and making bright, uneven, red blooms where the pattern had long since worn away. The screen door banged shut and bounced once, twice before coming to rest. They stumbled through the kitchen and into the tiny front parlor. Maddie’s eyes had to adjust to the dimness, but she guided her husband to the sofa and tried to carefully sit him there. As she eased him down, he let out the first sounds she had heard from him.
“I’m sorry… Maddie…”
Maddie began fumbling with his shirt, trying to pull it out of his waistband. Sticky, red blood instantly coated her fingers, and, mingled with its coppery scent, was the smell of sweat and dirt. The buttons were impossible to manage with her shaking fingers, so she gripped the shirt and yanked. Every button flew off with a popping sound that was nearly drowned out by Joe’s scream.
“Joe! What is it? Oh, God, Honey! What happened to you?” Joe’s chest was covered with blood, dried and crusted into the hair, and new, seeping from a hole just below his left shoulder. The edges of the wound were jagged and blackened. She pulled away from him and drew in a sharp, involuntary breath.
“Oh, Joe! I’ve got to go get the doctor!” Maddie was already in flight for the door, only to be brought up short by Joe’s bloody hand entwined in her skirt.
“You can’t.” He looked at her with vacant, fading eyes and slowly reached around behind and underneath himself.
Maddie recognized what he had immediately, but it looked somehow strange. He drew out his hunting bag, the one she had made for him out of left over ticking. It was soaked, too. And full of something.
Joe tried to lift the bag, to hand it to her, but his strength was gone. It fell from his hand and landed on the threadbare carpet with hardly a sound. “I’m sorry…” he whispered again, and then he passed out.
***
She had wanted to keep him from going. It wasn’t that she was afraid to be left alone, and it wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the few farm chores that were left to do; she and little Johnny would be fine alone for two or three days. It was the wear and worry on Joe’s face that had frightened her. And his anger. Not directed at her, never at her, but at the situation, the Depression that wore on and on. And at himself.
Four nights ago, he had pushed himself back from the kitchen table, flinging his fork onto his plate. Cornmeal mush flew and landed in gritty, yellow blobs on the table top.
“I can’t eat another bite of this shit.” His chair scraped the floor and nearly tipped over as he stood up, grabbed the plate and marched toward the screen door. He had thrown open the door and sailed the plate out into the yard. Maddie heard it shatter and then heard him stomp off the porch. She would have gone after him if the baby hadn’t started to wail at all the commotion. It was just as well, the tension had been thickening for weeks, their relationship strained to the limit with bills and bad luck, no money and no work. And no end in sight.
When Joe finally came back into the house some thirty minutes later, his mood had changed from desperate anger to one of determination. Maddie had seen the firm set of his jaw, his mouth pulled into a straight, hard line, and she had known that whatever he had decided to do, he would.
“Joe, honey,” she had told him, “It’s not just us. It’s like this all over. We’re not the only ones eating mush. Be grateful we’ve got that. We’re the lucky ones.”
For a moment Joe’s expression had softened. He had taken her hands, and Maddie remembered the tears in his eyes.
“I’m tired of not being able to take care of you and the baby. I’m tired of us not having anything. Maddie, we’ve got nothing left to sell, and even if we did, nobody’s got any money to buy it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to the Thomas place to see if he can hire me on to work the hay, or something. He’s about the only one around who might have work, and I’ve got to get my ass over there if I’m gonna have a chance. Trust me.”
The next morning, just three days ago, she had trusted him as she watched him walk away, headed for the main highway to hitchhike his way to the Thomas farm some twenty miles from home. She had trusted that he would come back soon, or send word, and things would be better for a while.

***
The water in the tin dish pan was just a pale crimson now. Maddie had made many trips to the kitchen to pour out the old and refill it with clean, and her arm ached from working the pump over and over. At first it had seemed as though she was literally pouring Joe’s life down the sink, but finally she was making some progress in cleaning him up. The wound in his shoulder was clean through from back to front and still seeping, but she had managed to bind it with one of Johnny’s diapers. After about the fourth or fifth trip for clean water, Joe had roused a little, but not enough to talk. He wasn’t able to tell her anything about being shot, and he wasn’t able to explain the bag of money - still soggy with blood - that now lay at the foot of the sofa.
His jeans and what was left of the shirt had several torn places, and his boots were crusted with mud and leaves. Maddie gently removed her husband’s clothing, slipped a pillow under his head, and carefully covered him with a quilt. Next she brought the bottle of corn whisky from the kitchen and set it close by. Her chest tightened at the thought of actually having to use it for those ‘medicinal purposes’ they kept it for.
The small parlor she and Joe reserved for the occasional guest grew dark quickly. They hardly came into this room, and now Maddie looked around at the shabby furnishings, noticing the worn places on the sofa arms and the scuffed wooden floor broken up by the thinning rug. She went to the window and pulled back the curtains that she usually kept drawn. The sun was setting behind the house and this side was in deep shadow already. The tiny front porch needed paint, and the small yard beyond was just as dry and pale as the rest of the landscape. Out there was a view Maddie had thought she would never tire of: a pasture that rolled gently away from the house and, in the far distance, a grove of trees that extended from the property far enough to be called a forest. Lately she had come to despise that view. It represented a prison she and Joe were locked in with no escape, no other place to go.
Joe stirred, but settled again. Maddie let the curtain fall and turned back to her husband, the person she had trusted, the man who had vowed to do whatever was necessary to take care of his family. She laid a hand on his forehead. It was damp and clammy, but there was no fever. From upstairs, Johnny was beginning to stir. He wasn’t fussing yet, but Maddie could hear him whimpering.
In the kitchen, she poured out the last of the water from the dish pan. It made a pink tinged swirl as it went down the drain. Next, she picked up the oak rocker that had been her mother’s and moved it into the parlor. She tried to remember if it had ever been in that room before, but her memory was fuzzy about that. She liked to sit in it in her sunny kitchen, rocking her baby boy. Now tonight, she would need it in the dark, cramped parlor. Just another sign that all her world had gone wrong. Finally, she lit the oil lamp and set it on the table near the sofa. Joe’s face looked waxy and smooth in the yellow light it cast. When she finally climbed the stairs to the baby’s room, it was nearly dark inside the house, and Johnny was screaming now, demanding her attention. At last she settled into the rocker next to her husband, unbuttoned her dress and offered her breast to the baby. He looked up at her and grinned.

The Muse and The Question

My muse has posed the age old question – are you good enough?

I have a good friend who is a very talented playwright. He is funny, articulate, moody sometimes and at an impasse. I’ve received several e-mails from him asking my opinion about whether or not he should pull up stakes and head to L.A. and the movie business.
I sympathize with him. I think he should. I think he can make it. I think if he doesn’t at least give it a try, he will always regret it. It doesn’t matter one iota what I think. What matters is what HE thinks.

There is always a little voice in my head asking me “Who do you think you are, a real writer?” “What are you doing wasting your time on this drivel? Don’t you have some housework to do, or something more worthwhile?” Much to my surprise I’ve discovered that sometimes I succumb to that voice and wind up in an “artistic snit.” I never thought I would be one of those artists. Why, even a member of my writer’s group told me that they expected it of some of the others, maybe, but never me. Why not?

When that voice pops up, it’s difficult not to listen. And, when others pick apart something I’ve written, or ignore it, (as has happened lately) then that voice gets louder and louder.

I’ve discovered that every artist I know has that same voice in their head. The trick, I’ve found, is to have a support group to help drown it out. So, I would ask my friend, “Who is your support group? Who can you turn to when you hear that voice asking if you’re good enough?” If he has someone, and he believes in himself strongly enough, then he can make it.

Everyone who knows me very well at all knows I’m a perfectionist. And, that carries over into my writing. There are so many rules. Make your manuscript this way, or that way. Use this font, or that one. Space it just so. Use the right amount of words, not too many, not too few. What? Look, I know there have to be rules, but shouldn’t the content matter as well? And shouldn’t that be the main thing?

We writers struggle with every word, we agonize over what we’ve written. I don’t see any way to get away from that. I don’t have a way to block out that inner voice telling me I’m wasting my time. I can only turn to my support group, my fellow writers who hear that same voice and understand.

Until next time.

T.C.

The Traveling Muse

Hello!

Well, it has been awhile since I last posted something, and I have to admit it has been a few days since I last put words on paper toward my latest writing project.

It isn't that my Muse has abandonded me, it's just that many other things seem to get in my way. I just recently "retired" and getting used to a new routine is difficult. I still haven't convinced myself that I really don't need to get it all done in one day anymore.

Our place in the Texas Hill Country is green and growing and beautiful and I spent two entire days just sitting on my patio reading a book, and wishing, of course, that I, too, had a book published and in someone's hands.

Recently, I heard a great motivational comment by Oprah. "The Universe is waiting for you." I think that is true. If we just sit and wish, our dreams will never come true, and the Universe will never even know we're there. So...my muse and I must get back to work. The ideas haven't deserted me, just the drive to get them onto paper.

I think I'll see if I can rouse her up this evening and move forward on a project, any project.

And, please check out Humble Fiction Cafe's blog at www.humblefictioncafe.blogspot.com. We are having our first ever contest - giving away a copy of our book Split and a wonderful Split candle. (It smells soooo good!) Check it out, enter and you might be the winner.

Until next time.

T.C.

Don't Stop Now!

My muse has just taught me a very valuable lesson. Don't stop in the middle!

I have tried to come back to working on a project that I put away a little while back. The exact reason, or reasons, that I stopped are fuzzy now, but I'm sure it made perfect sense at the time.

I'm a big note leaver. I write snippets of plot and dialogue on scraps of paper, then I stick them in a notebook set aside for the particular project they go with. Of course I assume that I will know exactly what I was thinking then at a later date, but of course, I rarely do.

So, I've taken this out, dusted it off and... I have no idea what to do next. It's obvious where to start. Middle of the page on page 12, practically in mid-sentence, but now my train of thought is long gone. Pulled out of the station and I missed it.

Moral of this story. Don't stop! Finish the thing. Oh, wicked Muse. Why do you plague me with so many other ideas?
AHHHHHHH!

Until next time,

T.C.

My Muse and I Would Like to Share

Well, my muse has been pretty good to me today. That story that I so want to write is inching forward, but I have to admit that several times today I just had to get up and walk away, fill my head with something else and then come back. You know, it's kind of like doing a puzzle. You search and search for that one piece that will connect the easy parts of the puzzle that you already have done, but you can't find it. You get to the point where you're certain that they just failed to include that piece in the box, or maybe the dog ate it, or something and you give up and walk away. Then, later you just walk casually by the table and there it is! In plain view!

That's the way with writing. That perfect word or phrase just isn't there. You know exactly what you want to say, but all the tiny little words your brain can think of just aren't the right ones. So, sometimes leaving it and returning later is the best thing to do.

Our story isn't ready to share, but I do have a poem I wrote a while back that I'd like to put here.

I'm not much of a poet, but I do love a challenge. This one is called a "sestina" and you'll see the very precise pattern it follows. Pay particular attention to the ending word of each sentence.

Until next time.

T.C.






I BELONG

Always and long a part of me, I belong in the night
Warm and cool, close and far, bonfires send their sparks
Into the sky, into the stars, into the skimming clouds
Blown by wind, touched by limbs, tattered by the breeze
To mark our time, to claim our place, to make a fire
That tells a tale, that shows a cause, that helps us dance.

Hours long and seasons short, time to make our dance
Of change and will and family, our voices fill the night
With laughter long and tears but few, we look to fire
Our souls aloft to come back to Earth, to that which sparks
Our desire of place and home. And so we want and will and must breeze
Through the dark, into the stars and over the moon where nothing clouds

Our voices raise, our eyes see far, the evening holds the clouds.
The hills move close, the heavens shift, the Earth begins to dance
When morning comes we go our ways reminded by the breeze
The day is long, the noon sun warm to carry us back to night
My time, our time of blue and veils and sparks
Of warmth and group, of pagan souls we gather by our fire

To expand our world to the stars and back, we want only to fire
Our souls and minds and hearts together in the dark. The air clouds
With smoke and scents and faces, we move together and it sparks
Our wills, our friends, our homes together in our dance
Hidden from day, ever present, unseen, we worship in the night
Creatures small, we know them well, our Earth will breeze

Always I come in dark and cool. The ashes are blown by the breeze
To feel the warmth, the ground, the trees. The fire
Fills me up and makes me whole, the glow lights up the night.
A sparkle on the wind it is and in my eyes and in the clouds
That race across the crescent moon and hang there as I dance.
To hold us close, to light our way, with burning boughs and sparks.

Secret to the waking world, I am absent in the day, what sparks
My soul and makes me real is something that can breeze
By my cheek and not be seen, but felt still in my dance
Of air and stars and pale blue light, of calm that helps me fire
Passion and glow and all myself. This time, my time and nothing clouds
My head, my heart, my soul at all. The soft and blue and cold and dark –night.



So on I go, with flame and sparks, with the hills and stars and fire.
I move with grace and feel the breeze. I celebrate the time, I marvel at the clouds
I must go, I must dance. I belong to the night.

The Best Story I Never Told

Tonight my muse is flighty. She's here and she has lots of things she would allow me to write, but she can't seem to settle down and tell me just one story at a time.

We're still working on something, and it's coming along, at least my writer friends think so, but my brain is stalled. In my mind, it is written and wonderful. On the page, not so much.

I read somewhere recently that most writers envision their next project as the best thing they have ever written, that is until they actually sit down and begin. Then, the project turns into work and the words don't flow easily and that beautiful great American Novel, or the prize winning short story somehow falls apart.

That's what's happening to me tonight. The concept of my story is wonderful. I imagine that if I could craft it just so, I could transport my readers in time. I could make them anxious for my main character. They would feel her desperation too, if only I could chose the right words.

You see, it's a wonderful story. The best one I've ever imagined. If only I could just get it down on paper. If only...

Until next time.

T.C.

I Wanna Tell You A Story!

My muse and I are at war. I have a story that I so want to write, but she's teasing me tonight. She's revealed the story to me. I know how it goes, I know the characters and I know just how desperate they are, but that's it!

So far today I've managed to write about three paragraphs. That's it. Now, my muse (the bad girl that she can be sometimes) is laughing at me. If she would only help me write some dialogue, or some description, but for some reason she thinks I should do this all by myself!

But wait! I can hear her in the back of my mind. She's telling me to be patient, slow down and observe what she's about to show me. She wants me to stay in the scene long enough to bring out all the details.

That's what so many writers fail to do - stay with the scene long enough to learn all they can about what they want to say. So often we are in such a rush to get our story out that we wind up with pages and pages of "this happened and then this happened, followed by this and this." which doesn't make for a layered tale.

So, I think I'll go draw up a hot bubble bath, relax and watch the little movie that my muse tells me she has all set up for me. Then, more than likely, I'll pull out some paper and a pen and write something. You know, sometimes getting away from the computer makes the ideas come more naturally.

I know one thing for sure. This story is going to pull at me for a while and maybe that's a good thing.

Until next time.

T.C.

Count Down to Another Life

Hello again. It has been awhile since I've been here but I have a good excuse. Life got in the way. Not that that's a bad thing, but sometimes the mundane encroaches on what we want to do with ourselves.

I'm looking forward to the end of this month with anticipation and a little dread. I'll be leaving my full time job and taking on the life of a writer. Twice as much time, not nearly as much money.

Notice that I've added another book cover to the art work here. Isn't it beautiful? I'll be working on another book for the Dark Tarot series by Tease Publishing. No release date in sight yet, but I suspect it will be sometime next year.

My first one, Bring Me To Life, is with the editors now, so hopefully, I'll be able to announce the release date soon. First e-book and then print. It's very exciting!

There's only one problem right now with this writing thing... my muse has decided to visit, but she's brought a very strange tale with her and it isn't at all what I'm supposed to be working on. I've decided that I can't deny her, though, so I'll be taking a little side trip. As she reveals the story to me, I'll try to keep you posted.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Please check out http://www.darktarotauthors.blogspot.com/ Beginning on 4-15, there will be daily posts that will let you enter contests to win neat prizes. I'll be posting there first, so please pop over there to see what's up.

Until next time.

T.C.

Beginnings and Endings and the stuff in the middle

Well, I've done it, again. Created an ending, which always leads to a new beginning.

I've been employed for the past eleven years and just this past week I turned in my resignation. Time to move on to something new.

I'm hoping that this new beginning will lead to much more time spent with family and much more time spent right here in front of my computer writing.

As with most writers, I'm always concerned with the stuff in the middle. I know the beginning and I know the end, but that middle ground sometimes seems like a huge desert that has to be crossed.

I just hope that my muse will be able to stick with me on the journey.

Recently, I learned that a short novel I wrote on a whim for NaNoWriMo will be published sometime later this year. This is very exciting for me and I'll post here as things happen, and I'll be posting a link to all the sites that have to do with that.

You might want to check out some of my other writing that just recently saw print too. There's a little book of short stories on lulu.com called Split that I'm very proud of. This anthology is the culmination of months of hard work by my writer's group - Humble Fiction Cafe.

We pushed and prodded each other along and what we came up with is a wonderful collection of our best work (so far). I'm looking forward to much more collaboration with all my friends there and the creation of more and better writing.

Signing off now and hoping my Muse will show up as I have a project that needs work.

T.C.